1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Nine

by Carrie Ann Ryan

  The job comes with plenty of stress, but she can’t think of a more comforting work environment, a sprawling, contemporary mansion in one of the best neighborhoods in Dallas. Indeed, Belinda’s home is so thoroughly covered in cream-colored carpet and upholstery, so thoroughly dotted with fragrant room diffusers, sometimes she feels like she works inside of a really expensive breath mint no one can bring themselves to take a bite out of.

  And Belinda’s office would put Oprah’s to shame. A fifteen-foot ceiling complete with a chandelier that would barely fit in Amber’s living room. Soaring bookshelves in between gold- framed maps of all the oil fields her family has managed in the sixty years since her great grandfather struck black gold on his cattle ranch outside Fort Worth.

  As usual, Belinda sits amidst this splendor dressed like she just stumbled out of a spin class. A pink workout visor sits on her tight cap of steel gray curls. Her yoga pants slide down her legs as she rests her sandaled feet on the edge of her antique black and gold Louis XIV desk.

  Belinda doesn’t look up when she enters, just keeps flipping through a copy of Texas Monthly so fast it looks like she’s afraid all the pages will stick together if she pauses to read any of them. She loves her boss’s mix of big money and no bullshit. Hell, she even invented her own term for it—brash casual. When Belinda took a liking to the phrase the minute she heard it, Amber knew they’d have a good relationship. Maybe even a kind of friendship.

  “How’s that drink, honey?” Belinda asks without looking up from her magazine.

  “Haven’t tried it yet. I’m no bartender.”

  “Have a seat and take a sip.” She drops her feet to the floor and sets the magazine to one side.

  Seated, Amber says, “I’ve got the seating chart for the Women of Industry breakfast all printed out if you—”

  “Yeah, yeah, later. Sip, honey. That’s an order.”

  As she feels the burn, she fights the urge to take in a deep, gasping breath and loses.

  “Good stuff, huh?” Belinda asks.

  “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “I can tell.”

  “Am I getting fired?”

  “You think I waste good vodka on people I’m about to fire?”

  “It doesn’t seem like your style, no.”

  “I figured if you had a drink in you, you’d be more likely to tell me the truth when I asked you what was really going on at home.”

  “I’ve told you the truth. We’re having problems.”

  “Like he left dirty dishes in the sink problems or her name’s Tiffany and she makes him feel like a real man ’cause she’s too young and stupid to know what a real man is problems.”

  “Her name’s Mary and she’s twenty-four.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Belinda hurls the copy of Texas Monthly to the floor. “Scum! I knew he was scum. You gonna get offended if I tell you I knew your husband was scum? Knew it since he walked through the front door at my damn Christmas party.”

  “Just please don’t tell me he hit on one of your nieces.”

  “Oh, hell, no. He didn’t need to. I just had to look at him. That’s all.”

  “Look at him?”

  “I know his type. Five years ago he was God’s gift to women. Now he’s over thirty and the chicken fried steak’s leaving its mark and the music career ain’t happening, so he’s expecting the world to make him feel as good as it did when no one was judging him on the content of his character. That’s all Little Miss Mary’s about.”

  Amber downs half the martini. This time it doesn’t burn so much.

  “There you go, sweetie,” Belinda says.

  “Wait…his music career? When did Joel tell you about his music career?”

  “Wouldn’t shut up about it at my Christmas party, soon as you were out of earshot. Forgive me for saying so but it didn’t take a detective to figure out that the main reason he talked your daddy into leaving him that bar is so he’d have a stage for him and his band to play on. What the hell are they called again? The Junky Toadstools?”

  “The Blinking Jailbirds.” Just saying the name of her husband’s band now feels like coughing up a razorblade.

  Hell, just saying the name of her husband feels like coughing up a razorblade.

  “God, that’s worse. They any good?”

  “No,” Amber answers truthfully for the first time in her entire life.

  “Well, there’s one small blessing in all of this. You won’t have to listen to them murder cats anymore.”

  “It’s not that easy. The situation with the bar is…complicated.”

  “Yeah. How’s he been at actually running the bar?”

  “Not so great.”

  “Maybe that’ll work in your favor. One thing’s for sure. I’ll work in your favor if you need it.”

  “Thank you, Belinda,” Amber whispers. She’s afraid if she answers in a full voice, her gratitude over this offer of assistance will cause her to break down again.

  “Finish your drink, darlin’.”

  She complies, then gulps much needed air. “Listen, Belinda, if I’ve been falling down on the job, I apologize. I just need a week to—”

  “You haven’t been falling down on the job. Don’t be so damn hard on yourself. I just got sick of listening to you cry. That’s all.”

  “Wait. When did… Oh my God, were you listening to me cry on the intercom?”

  “Honestly, I was hoping to overhear a phone conversation, but you’re really good about not doing cell phone calls at work.”

  It’s called texting, Amber thinks.

  “I’m a bigger fan of Cowboys games, to be frank, but I had to know what was troubling my precious personal assistant on whom I rely for pretty much everything in the world now… Oh, don’t get all sad faced on me. I only did it about five or six times.”

  “It’s your house.”

  “Answer a question for me,” Belinda says.

  “Okay.”

  “Are you sad or are you just angry?”

  “Can’t I be both?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re one more than you are the other. That’s always how it goes when marriages end. Pick one. Just for the sake of this discussion.”

  “Well, I cry all day at work, so what do you think?”

  “What do you do when you’re home?” Belinda asks, sinking back in her chair, hands clasped against her stomach.

  “Not much.”

  “Liar,” Belinda says with a smile.

  “I’ve got a dartboard. I put his picture on it. It sounds stupid, but it makes me feel better.”

  “You any good at darts?”

  “I’ve gotten better.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but there are easier ways to become a better darts player.”

  “I’m sure,” Belinda says with a grunt. She leans forward suddenly. The chair rolls forward a few inches, the ends of its arms thudding against the edge of the desk. But Belinda’s a small enough woman that she’s still got plenty of room in which to make dramatic hand gestures. “You’re not crying over what you’ve lost, Amber. You’re crying because you don’t know what lies ahead. That’s a big difference.”

  “I take it you have some experience with this?”

  “Three experiences to be exact. The first one cheated. The second one drank until I threw him out. The third once starved me in the bedroom ’cause he was hoping I’d cheat and then he could try to get some of my money.”

  “I see,” she says.

  “I didn’t cheat, by the way.”

  “I didn’t ask,” Amber says. “None of my business.”

  “Oh, enough of that now. We’re gonna get all up in each other’s business today, girl.”

  Amber flushes.

  “Oh, no! Not like that, Amber. I haven’t swum in the lady pond since college. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got plenty of friends who do, but… We’re having a heart to heart. That’s all I’m saying.�
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  “So this is your heart that you’re showing me today?”

  “You thought otherwise?”

  Amber just stares at her.

  “Fine!” Belinda cries, shooting up from the chair. “I’m telling you how you feel! And I’m doing it because I’m older and wiser and more experienced than you are. There. You happy?”

  “Happy isn’t really a word I’d apply to my situation just now.”

  “Well, waste as much time on tears as you want, Amber. But I saw y’all together. There was about as much love between you two as a rattler and my front tires.”

  “Which one am I? The snake or your Bentley?”

  Belinda laughs.

  She leans against a bookshelf, studying Amber with an expression Amber can only describe as serious. In another moment, the arch grin is gone and replaced by a look that seems both intent and faraway. Belinda’s mind had traveled to another place. She’s wondering if she should take Amber there with her.

  “I know it hurts like hell,” her boss finally says. “You married that man because he was handsome and charming and full of big promises. But when it came down to it, he wasn’t very much at all.”

  “I didn’t need him to become some big country music star.”

  “Of course not. You needed him to be a good husband, and he couldn’t even do that before he cheated. It’s hard to say, so I’ll say it for you. Nod if you know it’s true. You’ll have to admit it someday.”

  Amber nods.

  It makes her head feel heavy and her neck feel like it’s got a spike in it, but she nods because it’s the truth and Belinda’s right; nodding is easier than saying it out loud. And now, for the first time since her marriage ended, she’s crying in front of her boss. There’s no denying it. Joel has been a man of broken promises for their entire marriage, he was just good at distracting her from the last broken promise by making a new and even bigger promise over the pricey champagne he’d bought her as an amends. This time, however, champagne's not going to fix a damn thing.

  “It may not seem like it, but this is your moment, Amber.” Her hands come to rest on Amber’s shoulders. “This is your moment to decide what you really want, who you really are. The thing about you, girl, is you give all of yourself to people. It’s just your nature. Personally I love it because it makes you a great assistant, but it’s not about me right now. It’s about you. And this is about the fact that whether you believe it or not, you’re in a much better place than you think you are.”

  “How’s that?” Amber croaks.

  “You thought Joel was just second-rate and he ended up being last place. So it’s not like you tried for the brass ring and fell flat on your face. Hell, you don’t even know what kind of ring you want yet. Gold, silver, brass? It’s up to you, babe. They’re all yours to try for. Yours to discover. And I am gonna send you someplace that will make the whole discovery process easier.”

  “Like a spa day?”

  Belinda cackles. “Oh, honey. It’s a lot more than a spa day.”

  “Rehab for divorced people?”

  “Nope. You got any plans in the next few weeks?”

  “You mean aside from making sure my hu—Joel doesn’t get the bar?”

  “Two days. That’s how much you’ll need. Two days to get away. I’ll give you the time off soon as we get your…appointment set up.” Belinda hesitates over these last three words, as if everyday business terms don’t apply to whatever she’s talking about without really talking about it.

  “No offense, Belinda, but I’m not really a seminar person.”

  “It’s not a seminar. It changed my life for the better, but it’s not a seminar.”

  “Well…what is it?”

  Amber’s startled by the seriousness in Belinda’s expression.

  “It’s an experience,” she whispers. “And by the time it’s over, you’ll have a much better grasp on who you really are. On who you really want.”

  “This experience…does it have a name?”

  “The Desire Exchange,” her boss answers.

  “A sex club?” she cries before she can measure her tone. “You’re sending me to a sex club?”

  “It’s far more than that.”

  “How much more?”

  “A million flat. That’s the price of admission. Which I’m gonna cover for you along with any other expenses related to the trip.”

  “I don’t understand,” she says because thank you seems premature.

  Sure, it’s a lot of money, but what the hell is it for?

  “And you won’t until you’re there. But I promise you, I swear on every penny I have, no one will hurt you and you won’t be forced to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “And you can’t tell me anything else?”

  “Except for this. When you leave The Desire Exchange, you’ll leave behind a version of yourself that’s caused you nothing but confusion and pain. The same version of yourself that thought Joel Claire was a great catch.”

  Belinda’s one of the chattiest and most gossipy people Amber has ever met. But on the subject of this Desire Exchange place, her typical wisecracks have been replaced by the kind of proclamations Amber would expect to hear out of a lawyer or a judge. Maybe it’s the hefty price tag involved. If there’s one thing her boss takes seriously, it’s money. And maybe for that reason alone, Amber should just get over it and say yes, despite the fact that she’d have absolutely no idea what she was agreeing to.

  But she drank the martini when Belinda asked her, why not just—

  Because it’s a sex club! a voice that sounds like her mother’s cries. There’s a big difference between a sex club and a martini! Especially when the price of admission is four times the cost of her house.

  “I can tell you this, sweetheart,” Belinda says, sounding nothing like Amber’s mother. “This isn’t about letting off steam or making up for lost time or getting your inner wild child out of your system. It’s more than that. So much more than that.”

  The expression on her boss’s face does it. The satisfied, glassy-eyed smile. Whatever this Desire Exchange is, it took a woman like Belinda, a woman who’s been given every blessing one could ask for, and gave her something more, something better.

  Why not give it a try?

  Amber’s been a good little girl most of her life. Barely any hookups in college; none sober, anyway. Always waiting for date three before she gave anything away. And what did she get for all that? Manipulated, lied to, and cheated on.

  “Fine,” she hears herself whisper.

  Just one word, but it feels like total surrender.

  “Excellent!” Belinda cries, back to her chipper, hands-clapping self. “Now I’ll just—”

  The first text tone startles them both. It’s Amber’s phone. She waves her hand in the air to keep Belinda talking. But then there’s another and another and another, and by the time Amber stands up and slides her phone from her pocket, she’s got four messages in all. Two from Julio, the manager at Watson’s, and two from Annabelle, who oversees the kitchen.

  They all say the same thing.

  “What is it?” Belinda asks.

  “It’s my hus—Joel,” she says. “It’s Joel. He’s trying to change the locks at the bar.”

  “Go,” Belinda cries. “Go now!”

  Amber’s already flying down the stairs by the time Belinda shouts, “Call me if you need help!”

  Chapter 2

  For its first three years of operation, Abel Watson’s struggling country music bar occupied a single storefront between an ice cream parlor and a yarn store in a lonely strip mall. Amber was just a toddler then. Later, her dad would tell stories about how his bacon was saved when a nearby subdivision announced a massive expansion, and shortly thereafter, he found himself the owner of an upscale alternative to the Ft. Worth Stockyards, a place for wealthy Dallasites to line dance and listen to authentic country music without first spending forty minutes in the car.

  Today, Watson�
��s takes up three storefronts instead of one. The once dreary strip small is now a bustling shopping center studded with elegant restaurants, a ladies only gym, and a condo high-rise. The mall’s wealthy patrons clearly aren’t used to seeing physical confrontations outside of places like The Big Bend Bread Factory and Muriel’s French Kitchen. That must be why several of them are frozen in place, a few paces from their parked cars, gawking at the standoff between Watson’s entire lunchtime staff and Amber’s husband.

  The van for some locksmith company is parked a few yards away, right next to Joel’s dusty pickup.

  Dressed for work in his Western duds, Julio, Watson’s manager of ten years, stands right in front of the entry door. He’s about half the size of Amber’s soon-to-be ex-husband, but his arms are splayed across the door behind him, his body tense and taut, as if he’s prepared to launch himself at Joel the second the man gestures for the locksmith to step out of his van.

  Annabelle, the kitchen manager who used to babysit Amber when she was a little girl, is right next to him, still in her apron, her back pressed to one quarter of the entrance, arms crossed tightly over her boat’s prow of a chest. She’s wearing her apron which means she was in the middle of work when Joel started whatever this nonsense is.

  “Profanity’s not going to be your best choice, here, alright Julio?” Joel is saying when she walks up. “Now if you’d all just step aside, we can avoid involving law enforcement. And that, my folks, means we can also avoid checking on the immigration status of any—”

  “We’re all legal!” Julio shouts. “And you’d know that if you weren’t a lousy manager.”